


The White Stag

by kenaz



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Paganism, Remixed, Rituals, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-20
Updated: 2006-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenaz/pseuds/kenaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midwinter in Lorien is celebrated with an ancient ritual, as an unwitting visitor from Eryn Galen discovers to his great chagrin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Stag

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I 'lossviphil (The Snow-Kiss)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1001) by Esteliel &amp; Milly. 



All was snow. Whether in swirling crests and crystalline hillocks or in the crackling cover of hoarfrost, icy white stretched coldly in every direction as far as the eye could see. Night came early, the sun wilting in exhaustion ere reaching even the apex of its arc, and even at that lowly peak its rays were weak and wan against the storm-grey sky. Great leafless trees stretched skeletal arms beseechingly across the land as if halted in a plea for warmth from above. Only within the center-most reaches of the Lady's realm did the hardiest boughs cling defiantly to their foliage.

High above the drifts on a guard's _talan_, Haldir set down his bow in order to pull his cloak tighter against the encroaching chill and reached for a fur to set across his lap. His lantern put out a desultory glow and little heat; the coals on his brazier had burned to cinders some time before, and shortly he would need to shutter it regardless; no sense in making a target of himself in the dark. But as he stretched up a hand to dout the lamp, movement in the distance caught his eye: riders moving steadily across the plain, their mounts' breath gusting in pale curls.

Hidden beneath his cloak, his lips curled partially in amusement, but mainly in irritation. Bad enough that King Thranduil had sent a needlessly large retinue overland from Eryn Galen in this weather, but he seemed to believe that arriving at the latest possible moment, just as the expectant hosts had begun to wonder if a search party should be sent forth, would make a memorable entry. Not that King Thranduil had bothered to come in the first place; no, he had sent his son instead.

Haldir had heard the tales, that the crown prince of their Sindar kin in the North was fair as a maid but lethal with a bow. When the rider at the fore approached and pulled back his hood revealing ivory cheeks keen as knife-blades blushed red with the cold and eyes as clear and green as newly-cut emeralds, Haldir saw that the former at least was true, and that beyond all doubt.

Of the latter, well, he would seek the proof for himself.

"Mae govannen, _híren_," he intoned smoothly, one side of his mouth riding just a hair too high for politesse. "We are pleased to see you, though we had expected you before today. Lord Celeborn feared we would perhaps need to send a party to fetch you. It would not do for the Greenwood's favorite son to spend the longest night of the year frozen in a snow drift."

Neither the infinitesimal narrowing of the prince's eyes nor the tightening of his suede-gloved hand on the reins went unnoticed by the marchwarden, whose own brow rose ever so slightly in challenge.

"The _Sîr Ninglor _was not yet so frozen that it could bear the weight of our mounts, yet it moves swift and cold in this season and is not easily forded. But the sons of Greenwood are warriors all; we had no need for your aid, though it was generously offered."

Haldir's smirk only grew at hearing the prince's chilly diplomacy. Indeed, he wished to test this one's steel, and soonest.

# # #

Winter's hand did not stretch its icy fingers over the walls of Caras Galadhon. There, the Lady's power held sway and the days within were as temperate as her spirit. The bone-chilled visitors from Eryn Galen warmed themselves in the spring-like sun that filtered down through the canopy of the mellyrn and acclimated themselves to their host realm's amenable rhythms.

Haldir, freed by merit of his rank to linger in the great city for the days leading up to the Midwinter revels, woke early to drill alone in the training pavilion. Yet though he had roused with the first of Anor's rays, another had risen earlier still and claimed his space. When he saw the withy stranger practicing his forms with a white-handled knife flashing in each hand, he kept to the shadows to watch, his speculative eye growing ever more appreciative as the Sinda's movements increased in speed without ever losing accuracy.

A sheen of sweat disproved the apparent ease of the Elf's performance and gave a glow to his cervine features as his dance spiraled on. The thin linen of his shirt clung to the damp musculature of his frame, a milky sliver of chest just barely visible below his throat, and with each leap and thrust, the tawny suede of his breeches tensed against the flexing of his haunches.

Haldir's breath came quickly now, in time to the prince's cadence as if his own limbs sped to parry each attack, to answer each thrust with his own riposte, though he held perfectly still in the corner of the pavilion lest he alert the prince to his presence. The feral beauty of blades brandished in lantern light enthralled him, and as Legolas dove and swung, those subtle lights writ his shadow large across the canvas walls, a magnificent specter of ferocity and finesse. He spun and whirled, deflecting phantom blades, circling his arms in a wide flourish and raising them high as he lunged, his wrists crossing just behind his head with the knives standing tall within his fists, poised to deal a lethal blow to some invisible foe. The prince's silhouette loomed across the pavilion's walls, and to Haldir it looked for all the world as if two mighty antlers had sprung from his stately head.

_The tales did him no justice_, the marchwarden silently rhapsodized. _None at all. He is like the white stag: of rarest beauty and cunning, deadly and swift. Oh, to be the one who brings him down! _

And at that moment, as if he had apprehended Haldir's thoughts with a stag's acute hearing, the prince turned and met his gaze with wide, startled eyes. Swiftly, he stood and sheathed his weapons, his nostrils flaring against his rapid respiration.

_Ah, the buck scents the air and finds a wolf in pursuit! _ It was all Haldir could do not to leer at the unwitting display of sensuality.

Legolas bent at the waist and bowed with meticulous grace. "Forgive me, marchwarden. You should have priority in your own salle." His tone was crisp and officious, still ringing with the sting of the slight the captain had dealt him upon their meeting.

If Haldir was at all abashed, it did not show as he obligingly returned the bow, his glittering eyes failing utterly to display even a hint of the deference such a gesture required. "We could spar together if it pleased you, your Highness," he began in a most unsubtle gnarl, but the white stag had already turned and fled.

  
# # #

Haldir needed no appraisal in his looking glass to confirm that his uniform flattered him, that the drape of the tunic emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the nip of his sword-belt accentuated the tight plane of his stomach. All the same, he cast a surreptitious glance as he departed his rooms and paused to straighten the silver fibula anchoring his cloak at his shoulder.

He moved with confident strides through the city of trees, across walkways suspended high above the ground, over gracefully arching bridges that spanned the mellyrn and up the stairways that wound purposefully around their great boles. He paused again at the stately _talan_ where the scion of Eryn Galen was lodging before bringing up his fist to rap upon the door.

"Good day, _híren_," the marchwarden offered when the chamber door was opened. His tone was smooth and attempted candor, but candor was a quality long lost to Haldir of Lorien. Even at his most gracious, he aroused only wariness in Legolas, who tolerated the banal pleasantries but clearly wished him gone.

"There is a custom of warriors here in Lothlórien that is said to bring the Valar's blessing for the next year, though it would mean exchanging of the cosseting climes of Caras Galadhon for the bite of the wind beyond the walls - perhaps you are interested in taking part nonetheless?" The Silvan burr accenting the word 'warrior' made it rattle snidely as it rolled off the marchwarden's tongue.

"I am no faint flower to shy at the cold, Captain, though I'm sure you meant no offense with your misjudgment. Tell me more of this custom of my Silvan cousins."

Haldir's responding expression could only be described as predatory, though perhaps Legolas espied something of his approbation in it. "We begin with a ritual cleansing in the mineral springs. Less hardy souls find the waters too hot to bear for long. But fear not: after we have purged the dirt and darkness of the old year, we invigorate ourselves with a dash through the snow. It is a game of chase - if one warrior catches another, he may demand a boon of him, something to bring him luck for the year to come."

Legolas looked at him long and hard, as if to discern the trap being laid, and he offered no immediate answer. He did not ask what boon might be demanded, nor did Haldir volunteer the information, but from the adamant glower emanating from that exquisite face, the marchwarden surmised that Legolas inferred the manner of favor that might be requested.

When no response was forthcoming, Haldir sketched a desultory bow and feigned departure. "Forgive me, I meant no intrusion, but as a royal visitor to our realm, and a vaunted soldier no less, I thought perhaps..."

Legolas' noise of exasperation told him the trap had been sprung and the quarry snared.

"I would not wish to disgrace my home or my people by refusing to honor the customs of my hosts," Legolas evenly replied, though his displeasure was clear.

"I am certain you will show admirably," Haldir answered dismissively as he unfurled the fingers of his hand. Across the palm lay one pair of white ribbons and one pair of grey. "It is customary for participants in the rite to weave ribbons in their hair so that the others might know them."

"And the colors, what do they represent?"

Haldir shrugged with practiced indifference. "One is the color of snow, the other the color of winter skies. I have taken the grey these many years; it is the color of my uniform."

The prince could not quite school his scowl. "I would imagine red ribbons would be more to your liking; your mantle is of a scarlet hue, and I would think you would not wish any to forget your rank."

Haldir's smile spread slowly across his face, like a weal of blood blossoming in the wake of a well-timed slash. The slight inclination of his head assured Legolas his point had been scored, and he parried.

"Those who know my rank need no token ribbon to recall it. Though you are but a visitor here and perhaps require your memory to be refreshed." He thrust his hand forward, prompting Legolas to choose.

Legolas' jaw tensed. Impulsively, he snatched the white ribbons from Haldir's hands, and instantly regretted it when he beheld the acquisitive gleam in the marchwarden's eye.

"Are you certain of your choice?"

Haldir knew he had backed the prince into a corner; to admit uncertainty now would seem a weakness. Haldir savored the flare of truculence that flashed like lightning across the Sinda's exquisite visage.

"Very well. 'Till the rite, _híren_."

He took his leave quickly, before the silently fuming prince could slam the chamber door in his face.

  
# # #

  
The springs were veiled by an ethereal curtain of steam rising from the water, and Haldir could hear the exuberant banter of the ritual's participants before he could see them, obscured as they were by the haze. The whole of the Lorien guard was there, each Elf stripping off his clothing with the same unselfconscious ease before slipping into the water with a groan or a yelp or an imprecation unique to his own temperament. He watched from a slight distance as Legolas cautiously approached and scanned the throng, looking for him, he knew. The prince's relief at not finding him was unmistakable. It was clear Legolas wished to undress quickly and slip into the pool without Haldir's eyes fixed hawkishly upon him, and Haldir considered that granting him a final moment of modesty was perhaps the least he could do. _The very least_, he thought with a silent snicker.

Haldir was glad he had kept himself concealed, for he was perfectly content to witness Legolas' unveiling at his leisure: the swift revelation of unblemished limbs in perfect proportion, the lustrous fall of hair the color of winter wheat woven with ribbons of snowy white cascading down a finely sculpted chest, the first sight of that part of him that spoke of irrefutable maleness despite his soft beauty and which promised unremitting virility even in its flaccid state. The marchwarden took a measured breath lest his own maleness show its vitality ere the game even began. A sympathetic shudder ran through him as the prince sank slowly into the water emitting a hiss of pleasure mingled with shock at the extreme heat.

Only when Legolas had settled into the pool did Haldir step into the open and reveal himself. And though every face turned to him, it was only Legolas' face he sought, and only Legolas' gaze he held with his own. He took his time in disrobing, displaying his size and strength with flagrant pride knowing full well that many found him desirable, but only one this night would find him attainable. He greeted the moist heat and gauzy steam of the spring with his eyes beatifically closed and a rapturous sigh rumbling in his chest.

"Greetings, friends." His voice carried easily through the glade, and the amiable chatter was silenced. "And greetings to our honored guest."

Every eye in the pool roved coolly over the prince's form, and Legolas looked as if he fought the urge to grind his teeth together, for even a polite welcome could sound like a slight when issuing from the marchwarden's ripe mouth. A quick wink earned Haldir a resentful gasp only barely camouflaged by a cough.

"For years uncounted we have gathered on this day to mark the turn of the celestial wheel. Tonight marks the darkest night of the year, and with its passage comes the renewal of the sun. As the light is renewed, my brothers, so let our spirits be renewed. As the sun is kindled, so let our spirits be kindled."

A chorus of affirmations rose from the assembled Elves, some of whom were beginning to look flushed and slightly dizzy from the heat. The prince looked vaguely disarmed, as if he had not considered Haldir capable of poetic speech.

"Now our rite begins. Let the Valar set their hands on the swift and on the cunning."

With these words, a number of the Elves began to rise from the pool, and Haldir watched intently for the moment Legolas realized it was only those who bore white ribbons who stood.

"Once those who have taken the white have passed over the Nimrodel, the chase begins."

Legolas glared with unbridled rage as his fate was revealed, but Haldir did not demure under his furious stare, meeting it lightly and thus inflaming it further. Haldir knew that however great his ire, Legolas would not shame himself or his realm and would do as he had been bidden. With a final withering glare, the prince heaved himself out of the pool and bolted into the woods where the freshly-fallen snow glinted with adamantine brilliance in the fiery light of the setting sun.

Those who took the grey rose as the last of their companions vanished into the trees. Haldir fixed his hungry fellows with a rapacious eye and his voice rose with the call:

"Hunters, ho!"

Through the snow they ran, and it took not long at all for the first of the quarry to fall, a youth with a delirious grin caught round the waist in a smoldering clinch by his grey-braided captor who devoured his mouth eagerly before shouldering him up against a tree-bole and rutting hard against him there till he was mewling with want. Haldir felt himself begin to swell at the sight of it, the rush of the chase, the sweet taste of the capture; the beauty of one warrior's submission to another. By the time he caught a fleeting glimpse of milk-pale flesh vanishing between distant trees, his darkened shaft spiked up fiercely between his legs, its visceral hunger no less menacing than the bared fangs of a stalking wolf. Oh, but he would glut himself on hot flesh this night! The white stag would fall to his lusty spear!

Legolas bounded ahead, his long, lean limbs springing with preternatural speed and leaping with animal grace. The more elusive his quarry, the more ravenous became Haldir's appetite. As night fell and Ithil's crescent curved against the blackness like a giant bow, Haldir bayed his omnipotence at the sky, seeing it as a token that the Valar looked favorably upon his hunt. He could see the steam rolling off the prince's body as he ran, could smell the musk of him with each panting breath he took, imagined the salty tang of his sweaty skin on his tongue as he growled deep in his throat. Though in short sprints overland or up the incline of a hill the Sinda's lithe frame took the advantage, Haldir was built to endure and showed no sign of tiring. The chase only incited him; if he could not overtake the stag, he would run it ragged.

In a copse of slender ash trees with bark as wan as the abounding snow, Legolas halted suddenly and turned on his pursuer. Even without his long knives in hand he cast a shadow across the ground like an invincible buck which no arrow could fell. Haldir could do nothing but stare unmoving, caught by the fierceness of the prince's eyes, their roles suddenly reversed as Legolas came at him in a rage and knocked him forcefully from his feet and into the chill swaddling of the snow. The chase had rendered the former prey as roused as the erstwhile hunter, and the marchwarden felt rather than saw the bold heat of the prince's erection as Legolas forced him down against the frozen ground and viciously assaulted his mouth. He bit hard at Haldir's lip and drew blood, scarlet drops dancing vividly across the crust of the rime as he pulled harshly away and crouched so his engorged shaft was hidden from view.

"There, villain! You have your victory! Does it please you?"

Haldir said nothing, but rolled to his knees, lapping at his stinging flesh and tasting metal.

The prince's ire was nowhere close to spent. "I asked you what the colors of the ribbons represented and you deceived me to make of me a fool!"

Haldir smiled and his teeth were bright with blood. "I told you that some were the color of snow and others the color of winter skies. Where is the lie in that?"

"It was a lie of omission and well you know it! You withheld the knowledge so you might take advantage of my ignorance."

The mirth was gone from the Marchwarden's face now, and what replaced it was the strange light of earnestness. Not repentance, nay, for Haldir owned his actions, each one to the last, and did not repent of them. But there was an openness in his features Legolas had not seen before.

"Can you fault the hunter for wishing a chance at the prize stag? Would you have foregone the opportunity had you stood in my place?"

Legolas could not say that he would have.

"Tell me in truth, my prince: do you not find us evenly matched? I have not caught you, but rather you have turned the tables and brought me down. Do you imagine I could force unwanted attentions upon you?" He pinned Legolas with a vehement stare. "Even could I best you, forcing myself on one unwilling is not in my nature." Slowly, as with some skittish beast, Haldir stretched forth a hand and let his fingertips graze the angle of the prince's cheek. "Think you I wished to set my sights on prey so easily taken? Where is the thrill of the hunt, if not in the knowledge that your quarry might elude you despite all your strength and cunning?"

"And yet I did not elude you."

"You might have, had you not given in to your fury."

Legolas snorted irritably and offered a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders.

"Do not end this year in anger, my prince," Haldir entreated. "Greet the coming of the new season with an open heart instead, and ask the Valar to bless the two of us."

With nimble fingers, Haldir unraveled one of his braids and tugged free the grey ribbon that serpentined within his locks, pressing it into Legolas' hand. "As it was you who snared me, it is you who should demand a boon. I would give you whatever it is you ask."

Legolas stared at the ribbon in his hand for a moment, and then unraveled one of his own braids, threading a white stripe in Haldir's hair. Haldir leaned into the gentle tug of the prince's hands and as the final strands were crossed and bound, Legolas leaned forward and let his forehead come to rest against his. It seemed at last that hunter and prey had forged an accord.

"If you would grant me a favor this night, Haldir, then show me what becomes of a stag that falls to a Lorien arrow."

Haldir's answering smile was beguiling. "That I will show you with pleasure."

He pressed his lips gently against Legolas', and the prince opened to him with a surrendering sigh. His tongue was hot and slick as it coiled in Haldir's mouth; their kiss tasted of salt and snow and faintly of Haldir's blood.

Haldir's hands moved inexorably over Leoglas' body, stroking his cheeks, sliding down the warm skin of his chest. No longer did the prince try to hide his body's fervor. He allowed himself to be devoured by the Marchwarden's hungry mouth, caught by his clutching hands, laid low by the immanent threat of that Silvan spike that rode hard and hot against his thigh. But Haldir would suffer no passive resignation; he did not care to subdue some weakling creature. He teased Legolas without mercy, tormented with a gentle stroke as often as a rigorous grind until Legolas writhed and snarled beneath him.

"Tell me, Haldir, what boon would you ask of me?" Legolas' breathless whisper was the raw sound of desire, and Haldir growled to hear it, his fingers tightening on the prince's straining length.

"Let me see you fall," he rasped, quickening his strokes on the torrid flesh and grinding himself into the body beneath him. Legolas bucked up and spent himself hard with a dying cry, the seed pulsing thickly out of him as white as the snow melting beneath their bodies, as white as the ribbons twined in their hair. The primal spectacle drove Haldir to quickly follow, his own climax a victorious roar in the dark.

After a time, their breath returned to a less vigorous rhythm and Haldir rolled away. Legolas' face clouded with dismay when he stood and shook off the icy droplets that clung to his skin.

"Come, my prince." Haldir grinned as he proffered his hand to his companion. "As I said before, it would not do for the Greenwood's favorite son to spend the longest night of the year frozen in a snow drift."

There was heat in Legolas' returning stare, but it was no longer the heat of anger.

  
# # #

Morning dawned and mild light filtered lazily through the screens in Haldir's _talan_. The marchwarden raised his head from his pillow to grunt bearishly at the encroaching day and then rolled to his side and tossed a shackling arm around the prince's warm and supple form, his knuckles spelling circles against royal ribs. When those idle fingers trailed further down they found the prince's flesh ardently welcoming the return of the sun, and his own flesh soon roused to the insistent tease of the archer's hand and the rhythmic rocking of his slender hips.

_Oh, that I should greet each day with such a prize in my bed_, he thought wistfully as Legolas' limber fingers captured him and they lingeringly kindled each other to rapture.

Some time later, he moved his head from where it lay comfortably pillowed on Legolas' chest and beheld a devilish and most unprincely smirk. He frowned suspiciously.

"I find I like that smile of yours not at all."

Legolas quietly chuckled and wrapped Haldir's white-ribboned braid tightly around his finger.

"Tell me, marchwarden, what do you know of Midsummer in the Greenwood?"

  


_~~ THE END ~~_

_   
_

**Author's Note:**

> Talan = A tree-house of the Galadhrim in Lorien  
> Híren = My lord  
> Sîr Ninglor = Elvish name for the Gladden River, a tributary of the Anduin which lay North of Lothlorien.


End file.
